The French Aristocrat's Baby

Etienne’s face was expressionless; he seemed to have retreated from her. ‘This was an accident. Accidents happen,’ he said in a low voice.

Gwen tried to catch her breath. It wouldn’t be held, and escaped as a sigh. His attitude should have come as a relief to her. Instead it left an aching void. She wanted this man to want her, in exactly the same hot, heady way she wanted him. It nearly sent her over a precipice of temptation. Colour flared in her normally pale cheeks. What had possessed her to do a thing like that? With his relentless masculinity close enough to touch, that was an easy question to answer. Etienne’s body was a powerful incentive for Gwen to behave in a way she would never have dreamed possible. He roused her to fever pitch, but now he was leaving behind a burning ache for him, deep within her body.

‘Tension expresses itself in many ways,’ he added. A tiny muscle flinched in his jaw as he spoke.

The tilt of his chin and that macho dismissal told Gwen all she needed to know. Now she understood why Clemence had warned her about this man. He was the sort who took what he wanted, without offering anything in return. He would never feel the need to feign interest in her as a thinking, feeling human being.

‘I discovered long ago that money and manners don’t often go together, monsieur,’ she said icily. ‘I’ mcertainly not proud of this little interlude either, I can assure you.’

Picking up his forgotten glass, she started towards the French doors.

‘But I am.’ Etienne’s voice was low with amusement and he seemed to have recovered his wicked smile, as if the odd tension that had covered him a moment ago had been shrugged away. ‘It’s in my blood, cherie. You are irresistible. I succumbed to your charms. What better reason for pride could there be?’ he finished in a throaty whisper.

Gwen gave a huff of disapproval at that, but she was hiding a blush as she hurried away. Those words of his would echo in her head for the rest of her life. He called me irresistible! she marvelled. No one had thought to give her such a compliment before. Five feet three with a tumble of unruly honey-blonde waves, she felt too short and shapely to turn heads. Her bright blue eyes with their long dark lashes were a good feature, there was no denying it. But irresistible? Me? she wondered, wishing she could believe him. There was no doubt she had preened before her bedroom mirror when she had first tried on this stunning dress, but that had been behind a securely locked door. Now the delectable Etienne Moreau had kissed her, and complimented her. Much more of his talk and she might—just might—start believing it!

There was no time for Gwen to try out her budding self-confidence. As she left her office the countess Sophie steamed towards her with an evil glint in her eyes.

‘I hope you aren’t annoying my stepson,’ she warned, a purplish stain flushing through her thick layers of face powder and blusher. ‘He doesn’t take kindly to being manhandled by the lower orders.’

If only you knew! Gwen thought. The lovely Etienne hadn’t been showing any signs of prejudice a few moments earlier.

‘I took the count a drink, showed him where the first-aid kit was and thanked him for saving me from unwanted attention. That’s all, madame,’ Gwen said boldly.

The fat, bejewelled countess looked down her fleshy nose at Gwen. ‘Good. I hope this sort of thing doesn’t happen often. I expect better from a place that charges so much.’

With that, she swept away to the sympathetic company of her grand friends. Gwen felt her eyes filling with furious tears. She pressed her lips together tightly, to stop a vicious retort bursting out. Her bills couldn’t be paid until she had banked the balance of this awful woman’s invoice. All the loathsome countess had to do in her pampered life was sign cheques and authorise payments. Gwen earned every cent of her money. To get it, she had to smile politely all evening while being bullied and generally treated like dirt by her so-called ‘betters’. One of her mother’s favourite sayings came back to haunt her: ‘The rich get all the pleasure, the poor get all the pain’.

She bolted into the kitchens. For the rest of the evening she worked behind the scenes, unless it was absolutely vital for her to emerge as the glamorous hostess. She understood cooking and loved it. Socialising was a part of her life she was really beginning to hate.

For the past two years, Etienne had been living under a heavy cloud of memories. His relentless lifestyle of work and partying was a reaction to it. He had been dead to pleasure for so long, something as simple as that reckless moment with Gwen should never have been able to lighten his mood. Yet somehow it had. There was something about her so unlike the others; it made him smile to think about it. He knew he should be wary, but it was difficult to forget the girl’s proud assurance that she wouldn’t be boasting of the experience. Etienne had been burned by kiss-and-tell merchants in the past. He knew the way they worked. That, and the fact she kept to her kitchen for most of the rest of the evening, made this little mademoiselle very unusual. As he circulated and made polite noises to his friends and acquaintances Etienne kept half an eye on the kitchen doors. Whenever she came out, she would scan the party, but when she made eye contact with him she always blushed and looked away. He wasn’t about to put her on the spot by approaching her again. That would only encourage Sophie to get up on her hind legs. He was content to appreciate the divine Mademoiselle Williams from a distance. Her rare appearances made an otherwise dull evening worthwhile. To his surprise he found himself totally unable to take his eyes off her.

It was a long time since any woman had done that.

Eventually, the happy racket out in the restaurant died down. Chauffeured limousines queued up outside to collect their glamorous owners. Gwen pasted on her sociable smile, and went out to wish each and every one of them a good night. She looked forward to gazing up at Etienne one last time, but she was to be disappointed. The whisper around the kitchens was that he had left earlier with a few friends. Gwen was quick to stop her staff gossiping, but that didn’t prevent her listening to what they said. Apparently the more restless spirits had gone on to an exclusive casino in town.

A long time later, Gwen said goodbye to the last of her staff. Then she locked the door with a thankful sigh. As usual, she was the last to leave. Checking that everything was spotless after the party and ready for the next opening took a long time. With no money to pay more than a skeleton staff, Gwen always tried to make life as easy as possible for them all. Once she was sure the whole place was perfect, she checked again. Her upbringing had convinced her that you couldn’t be too careful when profits were being squeezed like a ripe Jaffa orange. Work absorbed so much of her time that her high standards were allowed to slip a bit once she locked the restaurant door behind her. There was never enough energy left after work for perfection in her everyday life. It didn’t usually matter, but tonight it was destined to come back and haunt her.

The downward spiral began when she put the key into the ignition of her little car. The engine had to be coaxed into life, and the reason was easy to remember from earlier that afternoon. The petrol gauge was now well into the danger zone. Gwen dropped her head onto the steering wheel and groaned. She had meant to pop out before the garage closed and fill up, but there hadn’t been time. Now it was far too late to try. She wondered briefly about going back into her office and trying to sleep on the floor. Her nice comfy bed called too loudly, so she abandoned that idea. All she wanted to do was get home. She pointed her tiny Citroen in the right direction and hoped for the best.

It was a bad idea. The car spluttered to a halt halfway up the twisting mountain road leading to her rented cottage. With a sigh, she nosed it up onto the verge. Unlocking its boot, she grabbed the petrol can. There was barely an eggcup full of fuel inside it. A couple of weeks earlier she had given the contents to one of the waiters to top up his moped. She had totally forgotten to refill the can.

Gwen was faced with a long, dark walk home. Locking the Citroen, she started off. With no one to blame for the situation but herself, she tried to make the best of it. During the day, the views from this road over the Mediterranean were spectacular. At night the uphill journey was breath-robbing rather than breathtaking, although there were compensations. A million stars speckled the sky from one horizon to the other. If that wasn’t enough to take Gwen’s mind off her blistered toes, the nightingales that gave her restaurant its name were in full song. It was the perfect opportunity to let her mind wander back to that breathtaking kiss with the man who had called her irresistible.

Her head was so full of romance she was only dimly aware of a wholly man-made sound attacking the peace and quiet of the hillside. It took the blazing spotlights of a fast car to bring her to her senses. She jumped off the road in panic, but the vehicle slowed dramatically. Drawing level with her, it paused. The driver opened his door and hailed her.

‘Ah, c’est le chef anglais! Where are you going on such a dark and lonely night?’

It was him. Etienne Moreau. Gwen was hardly able to believe it. He was behind the wheel of a sleek, low, sports car and with relief she saw he was alone. To have met the gorgeous Etienne with another woman so soon after that wonderful kiss would have been unbearable.

‘I’m on my way home. My car broke down.’ Gwen smiled ruefully, hoping he wouldn’t want details. This was the man who called her irresistible. She didn’t want her fantasy wrecked by hearing him call her an airhead for running out of petrol.

‘The red Citroen C1 with the parking scrapes and missing offside wing mirror, parked half a kilometre back?’

Gwen nodded, trying not to look pained. That was all she needed. A fantasy man so perfect he knew enough about cars to recognise an idiot when he saw one.

‘Get in. I’ll give you a lift.’

Gwen looked over his impressive car as it purred contentedly beside her. And then the look in his eyes. They mirrored his words, after that brief moment of passion…You are irresistible…

Panic overwhelmed her. It was one thing to fantasise about a man. With her dream threatening to come true, she felt totally inadequate.

‘N-no—it’s OK. I’m fine. Totally. I’m nearly home. I couldn’t possibly…’

The wider he smiled, the faster her voice dwindled.

‘Nonsense. Get in. How could I let you walk any further on those stilettos, and still call myself a gentleman?’ he added with perfect logic, casting an appreciative glance at Gwen’s small, shapely feet. They were peeping out from beneath the hem of her dress as she held it up, away from the long grasses of the verge. She let her hands fall, freeing the folds of material to hide her painfully impractical shoes.

‘So—will you accept a lift from me now?’

Gwen sighed. Her feet did hurt, the road was long and dark and Etienne’s warm car, not to mention the man himself, looked wonderfully appealing.

‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’ It was tricky keeping the apprehension out of her voice.

Without a word, Etienne took the magnum of champagne that was propped up on the passenger seat. ‘You’ll be a much more interesting companion than this, ma chef anglais. I won it in a charity auction! Perhaps I will donate it as a prize somewhere else.’ He laughed as he got out of the car and walked around to where Gwen stood. Filling her arms with the heavy foil-wrapped bottle, he opened the car door for her. Gwen thanked him with a smile.

Getting into the confined space of the passenger seat was another trial. It sharpened her nerves to the point where she had to say something to cover her embarrassment. ‘Although I should tell you, monsieur, I’m Welsh, not English.’

‘Ah, that explains it.’ Etienne nodded sagely, slipping into the driver’s seat beside her. He paused, one hand on top of the steering wheel.

‘Before we start, give me your keys. I’ll arrange for someone to collect your car, and get it fixed.’

‘Thank you, that’s really kind,’ Gwen muttered, glad he would never see the tell-tale bill. When she was safely belted in, he pushed his sports car into gear and powered on up the hill.

She watched him, her eyes narrowed.

‘Why should the fact that I’m Welsh explain anything, Count?’

Etienne gave her a lazily superior smile. ‘That rebellious streak of yours…the way you chose to try and walk home in those ridiculous little shoes instead of phoning someone for help…I should have guessed. And don’t bother using my title,’ he added casually. ‘In my experience, people who call me by it are only looking to gain some advantage.’

Gwen felt slightly affronted, having never tried to gain anything from anyone in her life. ‘OK, Monsieur Moreau.’

‘It’s Etienne.’ His voice crackled, then softened as he asked, ‘Where do you live?’

‘I’m staying in Nick’s gite, right at the top of the hill. You can drop me anywhere that’s convenient for you.’

‘And you are his fiancée’s best friend, Gwyneth.’ Etienne’s accent turned her name into something beautiful and exotic, but his words were an accusation.

Gwen stiffened. No matter how gorgeous he was, she couldn’t stop herself reacting angrily.